The House of Bourbon
by arial-destiny
Summary: The war of succession had changed things, not only him, but how he felt about the other.


This was written to be more about the changes in Spain and Romano's relationship following the Spanish War of Succession rather than a completely historical piece, though it does take place in the early 1700's. I tried my best to research but obviously there will be things wrong as I am no expert in that time period.

Anyways, enjoy! =)**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

Loss hits hard and fast, Spain learned that pretty soon in his life as a nation. It was difficult enough when the Iberian Peninsula split into two – when Portugal claimed independence and left his house – but it was even harder losing everything that gave his days warmth and cheer.

The year was 1700 AD. Spain had a healthy reputation of being optimistic and so initially, he had hoped that his economy would soon recover; but no matter how many times he smiled at his reflection in the mirror, and remembered the glory days when the sun never set on the Spanish Empire, those days were behind him and eventually, he could no longer deny that he was in decline.

To make things worse, it wasn't just a mild cold this time, he swore he was going to die. For hours he laid on that grandiose bed, with its fancy purple drapes and sheets with gold stitches; wondering why God had damned him with a succession of terrible bosses. Charles II did nothing to help him; he only made his illness worse as he stormed his way through the large manor, complaining and screaming about the most irritable little things, making sure everyone knew about his nonsensical problems. Yes, his retard of a King, who couldn't even walk until he was eight.

It was in that mindset, full of bitterness and hatred that the bedridden often bred in their hearts, when Spain began to secretly pray for Charles' death. He never felt so low in his life. Spain, the once mighty country with the 'Invincible Armada,' was lying in bed with beads of sweat constantly dripping down the sides of his face, body twisting in his sleep from bouts of feverish nightmares. Unshaven, unwashed, unhygienic enough to rival his King's now infamous stench. _God_, he would plead, _please kill that man_. He wished for nothing more. No extra suffering, no terminal diseases or needles stuck into his eyeballs, just – death. A cold body in a casket, ready for the grave. He wanted that short, senile little monster gone. That was all.

Wishing his own boss dead; however, made him feel unbearably guilty and he felt so terrible that for once, he told no one about his dirty secret. Not even Romano, who probably wouldn't understand anyways. _Too young_, his conscience told him each time he gave the boy's body a one over, _much too young for politics._

Months passed and on one uncommonly overcast morning, Spain opened his eyes, dreading the fact that he had to suffer through yet another day of agony racking his body, but he immediately felt that something was off. The house was loud and people rushed back and forth down the hallways. But to his surprise, it wasn't Charles II who was screaming in a fit – as he usually did in the mornings – but the servants who were in a panic.

Spain tried to sit up, but only made half-way there before collapsing again. Rustles sounded from the side of his bed, and he looked up and over the side. His mouth fell when he saw Romano there, clutching his apron (_much too short_, he had noticed, _looks like he needs another one_) so tightly that it seemed like he was close to ripping it into shreds.

"W-what's wrong, Romano? Did the cat scratch you again?" Spain asked, so hoarse and croaky that he didn't even recognize his own voice anymore. Romano's grip tightened on his apron and he shifted his eyes to the ground. His slight shoulders shook so violently that Spain had momentarily found amusement that he was like a kettle of boiling water, but the young nation's words soon brought his attention back to reality.

"H-he's dead," Romano stammered, hands moving to his face, possibly to wipe off tears and cover any facial traces of horror. "All the ministers, they say he's dead."

Spain took hold of one of Romano's hands, still small and pudgy and soft compared to his own. His own hands were blistered and rough from years of hardship, and hot from his constant fever. "Who's dead, Romano?" He asked, and was temporarily stunned before he reminded himself that that hoarse croaking belonged to him.

"The K-kin – your boss!" Romano exclaimed suddenly. Relief filled Spain. Yes, it would soon be over. All his suffering would soon be over. But their eyes met, and Spain clasped a hand to his mouth as he realized that his beloved Italy was crying. His eyes were puffy and red, and bulged out slightly. Knots of hair twisted at the sides of his face; collecting snot from all the times he tried to wipe his nose with his sleeve.

"B-belgium says that things won't be the same anymore!" And Romano leapt onto the bed, drowning himself into those lavish sheets with the golden stitches and Spain's sweaty undershirt, crying about how he didn't want to leave. Spain only comforted him, telling him that wouldn't happen because Boss Spain would protect him. But that voice wasn't his own. No. Spain couldn't recognize it.

**2.**

The Hapsburg grip on Spain had ended, and so did Spain's cold, temporarily at least. He was well enough, well enough to fight in the war that seemed to break out immediately once he could urinate without a bedpan.

Austria had visited him first. He had a long speech, as elegant as his piano pieces, about why his royal family had the greatest and fairest connections to the Spanish crown; and why his boss, Leopard, had the greatest and fairest interests in having his family member inherit the Kingdom of Spain. Spain had declined (mostly because of personal grudges against the nation) using the excuse that his boss wrote in his will that the crown will be given to his great-nephew, Philip – Duke of Anjou. Austria would have to wait for Philip to renounce his rule first, before Austria had a chance. _Sorry_.

Austria left fuming, most likely back to his loathsome piano room.

France, his close but troublesome neighbour, had visited a few weeks later, toting a bottle of fine (French) wine and two glasses. The reason France rejoiced, offering Spain a very full glass, was self-serving, as his reasons usually were. It was because Philip V, the rightful successor to the Spanish throne, was French by birth, and of the House of Bourbon.

The message to the rest of Europe was clear: Two Bourbon Kings meant union, and the last thing the rest of Europe wanted was a French-Spanish union. _Dangerous_, Spain had thought, _this is treading on dangerous territory_. Both knew it meant war was amidst. Such a union could not to be allowed, it would make them too powerful. But power was such a wonderful thing, especially when you're a nation in decline.

France only grinned and raised his glass. "To the Bourbon monarchy, and a hopeful many years of prosperity, and cooperation between the nations of France and Spain!"

Spain was about to raise his glass too, but Romano had run in just as he was about to. He gave France that menacing glare, the one reserved only for those he claimed he hatred, but in reality was terrified of.

"Go to sleep, Romano. Tomorrow is a busy day," Spain had told him after an exhausting argument, but Romano still didn't budge. He only glanced at France nervously, who grinned back at him.

Under the light of the candles, Spain suddenly realized how much Romano had grown. New clothes had to be constantly made for his growing body, and he was eating twice as much as he used to. He was turning into an adult, and somehow it made Spain incredibly sad to think that soon, Romano would no longer need him.

"You're going to get into a lot of trouble, aren't you?" Romano mumbled, hands fidgeting with the hem of his apron. He shot a distrustful glance at France. "And it's because of him! This bastard here!"

"Go to sleep, Romano. Now is not the time to talk about this," Spain hadn't been sure when it would ever be the time to talk about political affairs with the young nation, but it seemed more and more inevitable now that he wasn't so young.

"Spain!" Romano cried. "If they take me away, it'll be all your fault!"

He ran away soon after, perhaps to find some dark corner to hide in until Belgium or a maid found him. That's what Romano always did, attack and run. Effective with Spain - but not in politics, because someone will always catch up to you. Europe wasn't very big after all.

Spain sighed and turned to France. "I think Spanish wine is better – by the way."

**3.**

Spain had tried to stay out of it at first. It was France and Austria that constantly argued during his dinner parties – displeased and stubborn in their convictions that Spain belonged to them. No one had the stomach to eat his food - which he worked so hard to prepare - because all eyes would stare at the two quarrelling nations, and all mouths would busy themselves with exchanging gossip.

"Spain is a Hapsburg!" Austria would proclaim and slam down his knife and fork – as unmannerly as he ever got. France would shout back, "Spain is a Bourbon!" while chopping his potatoes into bits. The banter would continue back and forth for hours, filling the room with tension and anxiety. Romano hid in the broom closet down the hall, waiting for Belgium to find him.

Soon after, Spain stopped hosting dinner parties.

**4.**

War broke out in 1701. Spain sat under the shade of a tree, wet and covered in grime. Rain fell in sheets, sometimes clearing for a few hours before starting again. Rows upon rows of tulips grew in the field – colourful and lively – ready to be crushed under the feet of countless soldiers marching to their death. This was in Belgium's territory, not far from the Netherland's house. France should have been behind him, leading their little attack squad against the allies, but he was nowhere to be seen.

_It's always like this with the Netherlands, always ruining my plans like this, _Spain had thought to himself, _always ruining my plans and declaring war at every chance. Why couldn't he be a good boy like Romano? _

The irony hadn't hit him yet.

He glanced up. Austria had most likely led his own army over the top of the slope, all waiting around for the drummer boy to give them a tune. England was without a doubt behind him – he hated France and any notions of his archrival gaining more power, followed by the Netherlands – who loved way everything that made Spain unhappy, and his damned brother Portugal – who was scared shitless of the Bourbons, no matter how tough he tried to appear.

He wanted to shout out France's name. _Where the hell was he_?

Gunshots whistled in the distance. It caught Spain's attention, and the sudden thought that France may have gone ahead alone made his heart jump.

"Francceee!" He called out, and left his hiding place while sprinting towards the open field. "Frannccceeee, don't leave me!" Feet pounded against the ground. Curly hair flung in every direction, obscuring his view as he made his way to the top of the slope. "Fra-"

The sight dazzled him. There he was. France stood in front of three sets of enemy lines, all lined up in rows of two or three, hands held up high. Was he giving up? Spain had fought so hard for France, so many nights of sleeping in uncomfortable positions, wishing he was back home in Madrid and cuddling up to Romano instead. To give up now was -

"What do you want, you bloody bastard?" England snarled as he slowly lowered his firearm. "Giving up already, like the coward you are?"

"Better for us," Portugal agreed. "We can end this quickly."

The Netherlands stayed quiet, without a single rebuttal or insult. The look of his eyes – dark and brooding with hatred and vengeance – spoke louder than words ever could.

Calvary men encircled several spots along the enemy lines, with infantry in between them. From their movements alone, Spain immediately realized what they were covering – artillery – and what it meant – collateral damage. They were preparing to bombard the enemy lines, and Spain was going to stop them.

He stopped running and bent down to load his musket. Gunpowder was shoved down the barrel with his ramrod, followed by the musket ball in haste. Spain crawled onto his belly, feeling the dampness of the cool grass below him. The wind started blowing.

He positioned his musket in front of his body and took aim. France was still talking, saying something to England but the sound was muffled by the whipping gusts. Flowers swayed freely in the wind, except – of course - for the ones that Spain had crushed on his way to the battle field.

The sound of the shot blasted through the air. It seemed to hit at least something, because a horse whined a cry of distress and the enemy lines fell into mass hysteria. Infantry men all looked around frantically, wondering where the hell the enemy was, and why they would pull such a dirty tactic. From his spot, Spain could see Portugal yelling for his troops to get it together, while England seemed about to tackle France with the butt of his rifle, but was stopped when two Musketeers quickly rode up to protect his archenemy from possible onslaught.

"Fraannnceeee!' Spain called out again. He got up, not even bothering to dust himself off, and sprinted towards his ally. "What are you doing?"

At his words, the line of English infantry turned their attentions – and their guns – towards Spain. France's eyes widened as he approached, and he held out his arms as though it would somehow stop him.

"Madness! Let me speak!" France exclaimed and raised his voice, peaking over the shoulders of his Musketeers at England. "I have a proposition as the nation of France: I will relinquish my claims on Spain, as long as you stop this war and at _least_ let him keep South Italy and his other colonies. Please, we must stop fighting!"

Spain felt his feet dig into the ground, crushing more and more flowers as he faltered to stop. "But France-! We're supposed to be allies!" France was the one who was so eager to be his ally, so eager to strengthen their friendship, and now this-?

Disappointment crushed him. It stepped and rubbed its heel against his heart, making each beat harder to pump – each breath of air harder to breathe – each mouthful of spit harder to swallow.

France betrayed him. How could he give up on Spain? Didn't he want him anymore? Was he no longer worth fighting for? Was Boss Spain that useless?

"Ha! That's interesting."

Spain looked over to the other line of soldiers. What happened next burned a permanent image into Spain's memory: It was the Netherlands' expression. It was a slight upturn of the lip, just a quiver that shook as he tried to hold it in place. More of a smile than Spain had ever seen on the other nation, but it was enough. It was cruel and full of hatred, even more so than his silence.

"France," he said, holding up the barrel of his gun. "If you think this war will end when you relinquish your claims on Spain, you are wrong. This war will end when Spain gives up everything! His colonies – South Italy – my sister – everything!"

France stared straight back at him, hair clammy and scruffy, so unlike his usual fashionable self. "Let us sit and talk. Please, this war is draining me – us and it needs to end."

Spain couldn't move. "France…"

Some logical part of him knew France was right. They were on the losing side of a war that had already gone on too far. Death was everywhere. It plagued his dreams, his thoughts and his sight. He smelled even worse than when he was bedridden and all he longed for was to return home to his violet drapes. Did he care whether his boss was named Philip V or Archduke Charles? Whether he lived with France or Austria?

But his legs were paralyzed. The only thing his heart heard was what the Netherlands said. _This war will end when Spain gives up everything! His colonies – South Italy – my sister – everything!_

**5.**

"Philip V of the House of Bourbon shall keep the crown of Spain, and his overseas colonies. However; the Spanish territories of Gibraltar and Minorca will be given to England, as a base for his royal fleet, while Spain's other possessions – South Italy and Belgium will be ceded to Austria. France will also give parts of his overseas territories in the New World to England. Philip V will keep the thrown of Spain, but as per the terms of this treaty, France and Spain are forbidden to ever join together as one country…"

The elderly man's voice droned on and on as the formerly warring nations sat in contemplative silence in the hall. Spain didn't remember everything that had been agreed upon. The only things he remembered where the terms that concerned him - and everything he would lose that day.

It was ironic, because Spain had been the one to wish Charles II dead, and now it had happened and turns its ugly head to bite Spain in the ass; because if the old maniac was still alive and kicking, this wouldn't be happening.

He continued to stare at the table in front of him as reality had yet to hit him.

They were going to take Romano. They were going to take him away from him.

His eyes snapped up from the table and drifted to where Romano stood beside Belgium, now only a head shorter than she was. He didn't complain, or cry, or call anyone a bastard. He just stood, arms held like a suit of armour at the sides of his body. It was then that Spain closed his eyes and let the hot stinging overtake his eye sockets. _Too young for politics_, his mind echoed_, but he's all grown up now, isn't he?_

Spain didn't say a word. He was like a limp doll on strings, waiting for a puppeteer to direct him onto the stage – to make him act, to dance, to sing. His hands didn't tremble or break out in cold sweat when the treaty slipped in front of him. He didn't hesitate to write his initials by his boss's signature. He didn't react when the Netherlands gave him that slight upturn of the lip. No, he was just a limp doll. Everything was just an act. Something scripted and written by a poor puppeteer who was down on his luck and needed an audience. But it would be over soon, and then everything will be okay.

It was when Austria grabbed Romano that the doll came to life. Suddenly, Spain had stumbled down the aisles, as agile as he had been in his Golden Age. Legs hopping and hands fumbling, just trying to grab hold of Romano's coat as Spain leaped after him.

"No!" He yelled. His voice was closer to his pre-sickness voice than it had been for years. "No! Not Romano! Anyone! Go take anyone else from me, just-no! Not him! Please!"

The doll was a pitiful sight, dangling from its strings as it glided from nation to nation, person to person, pleading that somehow his initials could be undone from that damned piece of paper. England only laughed at him, cruel and unswaying – the voice of a nation with unsurpassable confidence. Austria clicked his tongue, digging his perfectly trimmed nails into Spain's blistered skin as he wretched his arms away from Romano, throwing Spain onto the ground.

"I had given you a great and fair proposal, but you have rejected it and meandered down the path of war. There is nothing I, Austria, can do for you," Austria then stuck up his nose, which suddenly struck Spain as a very aristocratic Roman nose, and continued to tug at Romano's arm. Romano started calling him a bastard, crying and complaining that he wanted Spain, but it was no use.

Portugal joined the fray and kicked his brother, beating him with the heel of his foot. "Your old friend, Mr. Boot, remember?" he said to Spain, who quickly remembered the same boot kicking him, grinding his hand into the dust, when Portugal left his house. _Yes dear brother, I remember Mr. Boot._

Other nations joined, holding Spain back and placing well landed kicks that made him glad he was not human and had no need for his reproductive parts. An adeptly placed hit in his chest shocked his lungs, sending ripples of pain slowly throughout his body as the effects of the loss of air became apparent. His eyes rolled in its sockets. He gasped. Arms flung to clasp his chest and protect it from further assault.

Romano was no longer making any noise. He had succumbed to silence, perhaps realizing he was just a puppet – a toy in a name of adult politics, or perhaps he knew that he was too weak to do anything about it. The more sinister reason, however, was that he was disappointed – disappointed that big and powerful Boss Spain had been reduced to nothing but a pile of flesh and fabric, rotting on the floor as a gang of bullying nations decided to vandalize the floor with scarlet.

"Romano!" he croaked a final time, but the progression surrounding Austria was already down the hallway. Belgium and Romano – they were gone. Their footsteps echoed, growing fainter after each kick and insult Spain endured. His ears strained to keep the sound in focus, but it soon faded to nothing, just the invisible flow of water vapour drifting out of a glass.

It seemed, unfortunately, that the puppeteer was in a poor mood that day.

**6.**

When the struggle - which eventually was known as the War of Polish Succession - hit Europe, Spain found himself amidst yet another war, not that he was surprised. He was in southern Italy – Romano's territory – with the butt of his rifle rammed into an Austrian soldier. Circles looped under both of his eyes, his face scratched and covered in blood splatter, tired and somewhat resembling a maniac. The bang that sounded when he pulled the trigger sent chills of pleasure down his spine, because every damned soldier he killed brought him closer to Romano.

"Naples will be mine," his boss had told him, and that enchanting, confident voice straightened Spain's shoulders and made him sit a bit taller on his horse. "Naples will be returned to us!"

Now he was close – so close! The people of Naples, they were chanting against the Austria troops. Their voices rang through the sky, their bodies illuminated by the waning sun. Spain could feel their chants running through his veins, yes! They wanted Spanish rule! Romano would be his once more!

His eyes narrowed and glistened as he licked his cracked lips. Straddled comfortably on the saddle, he suddenly realized amidst the chaos and leagues of Neapolitans welcoming the Bourbon army, that it had been the first time in decades that he felt so _alive_. So driven and excited, like those first nights he had stepped on the soil of the New World, so overwhelmed with the sense of adventure that he couldn't sleep no matter how long he laid still.

"They've fled! Captain, they've fled!"

Spain twisted his spine to glance behind him, his horse turning direction soon after when she noticed her rider facing the opposite direction. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"The Austrian troops! They're abandoned the city and run off!" The messenger was young, barely an adult. By the way he was smiling, Spain would have thought he had much better news, news that Austria had been magically crushed by his own piano or something.

"That's good! But we've pretty much got the city anyways," Spain exclaimed, trying to grin widely despite how tired his jaw muscles were from clenching. It was hard, matching that young lad's enthusiasm, but being the country of sunshine, he felt obliged to try. However, deep inside he knew that the only thing harder than matching the boy's smile would be trying not to cry when his head got blown up by an Austrian canon ball months later. Such was the way of war.

"This is sumin'!" The boy exclaimed and looked towards the sky. "All my childhood as a lil lad playing on the streets – never would have thought I'd live the day to see Italy!"

"You've always wanted to visit?"

"Always wanted to see the world. Something's gotta be better than a hell hole in this world, I think."

"Italy can be a really beautiful place, it's too bad you have to see it like this," Spain paused. "It's real nice in Rome – during the spring. You can see all the Roman monuments and-"

The boy interrupted. "Nah! Don't care 'bout that stuff! I wanna see the people. The people who live and breathe. A bunch of borin' old lifeless statues don't mean nothing. The things you hold closest to your heart are the memories of people, know what I mean? What's the point of travellin' if you keep to yourself the whole time and look at a bunch o' statues, hm?" He beamed another brilliant grin, and Spain's thoughts turned back to Romano. Things had changed when he allied with France, his house was a whole lot emptier for one thing. No noises during the nights, but it became harder to fall sleep somehow. His bed was always cold, and he stopped making churros. He wasn't sure if he still remembered _how_ to make them.

"I guess. It's more fun with more people around," Spain nodded his head and turned his eyes away.

"Well," the messenger boy, most likely with only a few months left to live, steered his horse towards another road, gesturing towards it with his rather large nose. "I guess I'll be leaving – gonna see if any of the townsfolk want to make me some food. Some homemade Neapolitan stuff. Wanna come? I know captains are all busy but you still have to celebrate a victory, right?"

Spain considered rejecting, because if the sweat and metallic smell of blood on his face conveyed anything, it was that he was utterly unpresentable. He wouldn't be surprised if the citizens ran away, terrified from seeing his bloody face. However, something stirred inside him at the thought of sharing a dinner with a table full of people, all smiling and laughing and enjoying a celebratory meal together. He hadn't set the table for ages, since he mostly ate alone, and though it was a chore, he was kind of looking forward to doing it once more.

"I'll come," Spain kicked his horse, urging her to follow the messenger boy. "But I take no responsibility if they run away in horror when they see my bloody face."

The boy smiled back. "Sure, whatever you want, Boss."

**7.**

It was 1738 AD. Their reunion had been a strange one. It was the first time in three decades that their eyes glanced upon each other, and once again it was in a courthouse-like room, filled with ministers and people with auras of self-importance. At first, Spain didn't recognize him. His eyes kept looking around for Romano's short form struggling between all the tall politicians and other nations, cursing and spitting obscenities left and right. When Austria finally pushed his treasure towards the center and began talks of returning Naples and Sicily to Spain, Spain's heart leap towards the ceiling as he suddenly realized that the Romano he was searching for no longer existed.

"Charles of Pharma will renounce his claim to Pharma and surrender it to the rule of the great and fair Austrian peoples. In exchange, he will be crowned the King of Naples and Sicily for the House of Bourbon…" Spain drowned out the sound of Austria's voice, his eyes roaming over Romano's body.

Somehow he had turned into a young man in the span of thirty-five years. Though part of it might have been because he was no longer wearing maid outfits, and was instead wearing rather fashionable (male) clothing, it was his face that changed the most. His cheeks had lost its childhood pudginess, and were tinted pink in the light streaming from the windows. He had big eyes, the illusion enhanced by his long lashes and angular face. The same old pout graced his lips, but it lacked the silliness of his childhood-self.

In simpler words, Romano was beautiful and Spain was enamoured.

"Spain," Francis whispered. "It's best if you listen in times like these."

"I am!" Spain replied. But he wasn't. That was a lie. His mind was already too far away to ever come back to the droning sound of Austria's voice. Instead, he remembered the days when he was just a young nation - the same size as Romano was now - trailing behind an equally young France down the Seine. They were talking about skirt-chasing and 'teasing' and all those things their people did but they themselves had yet to learn about. And as his empty eyes stared longing at his henchmen's body, he wondered – did Romano think about those kinds of things? If Belgium kissed him now, would he run away like a shy little mouse? Was he like Spain and France in their young adulthood, peeping at women in the public baths while grinning ear to ear?

Suddenly, he was afraid. Afraid that Austria had made Romano change into someone he didn't recognize; someone who peeped at bare women and liked to be touched in unspeakable places, grinning like those lazy cats he used to bully.

"Romano!" Spain stood up, shoving his seat askew and yelling like a man who had just awoken from a terrible nightmare. A seemingly endless sea of eyes stared back at him, many accompanied by a raised eyebrow or a menacing frown. "Uh, you can go on." He sat back down, his face as hot as the growing discomfort in his groin.

"Spain…" France shook his head and looked back to Austria, and that was the end of it.

**8.**

The long ride home was silent except for the clatter of horses' hooves. For some reason Spain had nothing but an old merchant's wagon to take him and his prize back to Madrid. The Golden Age of Spain was over – all his boss sent was a freaking _horse wagon_.

He stared straight ahead at the rocky country road, reminding himself that he should be thinking about wolves or bears instead of Romano. He would have thought about rabbits too, except they hump too much and have too many babies that poop everywhere. No wonder Valencians used them in paella. Yes, he thought about wolves and bears, and how he hoped they wouldn't show up when they reached the _Pyrenées_. Yes, bears…wolves…baby rabbits – oh no –

"Spain."

He wasn't supposed to think about rabbits! Especially not the baby ones, though they were cute, like -

"Spain!" A hand grabbed thigh and he screamed. Out of all the places, why so close to –

"Spain! I'm talking to you!"

"Y-yes?" He turned to Romano, all his attempts at thinking about wildlife failed and trampled over. "W-what is it R-romano?"

"What the heck is wrong with you? You haven't said a damn word to me. Do you not want me around or something because I can just go back if you-"

"Sorry, Romano. A lot has been on my mind lately."

"Not about me then."

"No, mostly about you," _and bears and wolves and bunny rabbits_, he almost added. He felt a weight on his shoulder that sent goose bumps down his spine. All the hair on his back stood up at the touch as he wanted nothing more than a wall to smash his head into. Romano was leaning on his shoulder – his head – _on his shoulder_ – oh please oh Holy God save –

"Ro-romano-?"

"Whatever, I just want to go back already. Why is this ride so damn long, huh? Geez…"

Spain didn't want to do it, but his hand moved all by itself. It let go of one reign and wrapped around Romano's shoulder, shaking slightly and damning its owner to an eternity in Hell. He pulled him closer, surprised that he was spared from being ripped to pieces by Romano's embarrassment and fury, and rubbed his shoulder in small circles.

Romano stirred. "It's going to be lonely, isn't it?"

"H-huh?"

"It's going to be lonely, now that Belgium and the others are gone. It's been a long time since your Golden Age, hasn't it?"

"Ha ha…just me and you now Romano, and the guys overseas of course," Spain nodded. By 'others' he supposed Romano meant the Netherlands, _The Dutch Republic,_ but was too shy to talk about him. It was partially because of _him_ that Spain and Romano had been separated, and in an obscure way that only made sense to Spain, it was _him_ that was the reason he had so many problems with Romano's presence. _He_ was behind those feelings that boiled at the pit of his gut, changing his loving affections for his little henchman Romano into something else – something dark and lucid and unwelcome. Something lonely men searched for in whores.

"Well, I guess I'll have to eat all the churros by myself," Romano said.

Spain nodded, despite knowing that he hadn't made any since the day his 'family' was ripped away from him, but his thoughts – as they always did – drifted off and he suddenly felt faint again as his breathe hitched. France's voice had echoed in his head: _Hon hon hon…that is an…interesting shape they churros have there, Spain. Tell me honestly dear friend, what were you doing when you first made them, hm?_ God. Why France, why? _You know why Spain, you know very well why._

"Spain! Pay attention to me, bastard!"

"Y-yes! I am!" Spain was reminded of his conversation with France in the courthouse. _Pay attention, pay attention_…

"Fuck, I'm so bored. Isn't there anything fun we can do on this stupid ride?" Romano groaned and adjusted his head on Spain's shoulder. He used to that as a kid - nodding off on Spain's shoulder – but back then he was small and cute and everything he did had a childish flare that strictly classified Spain's affections as platonic. But he wasn't a kid anymore. And the way Spain felt was far from pl-

"Well," Spain started. "There are some things we could do…but…let's just get home first, okay?"

"Psh!" Romano then dug his head into the crook of Spain's neck and fell asleep soon afterwards. Spain stayed perfectly still the whole night, except for pulling on the reigns when they needed to stop. He had rested his hands on his heart and could feel the quick pumps beneath his skin.

Romano, _Romano_, when had things changed between them? When they were still together, or when they were apart? Who's fault was it? Austria's? _The Dutch Republic's_? Surely it couldn't be Spain's own fault – could it?

"Spain…" Romano mumbled in his sleep and Spain closed his eyes. For a moment, Romano was just a child again, drooling as he slept peacefully in his new Boss' arms.

_You know why Spain, you know very well why._ France said to him when the line between the world and his conscious finally blurred; but the thing about dreams is that they don't have to match reality. No, for the night, Spain would live in a feverish veil of imagination where Romano was still a child, the way he had imagined his Charles' death before it occurred. The way he saw his reflection in the mirror and reminisced about the days of the 'Invincible Armada' before England sank it. The way he could speak in that hoarse croaking voice and know that it was his own.

"I love you, Romano," Spain whispered in his dreams to the boy in his arms, and somehow he knew it will not mean the same thing if he whispers it three decades – a century – later. No, the words will have a new meaning by then, a different definition for every situation – for every kink and corner he turned, but there was one thing that will stay constant - unwavering, and that was how much he knew it was true.

"I love you, Romano."


End file.
